Here is a haiku

I have fabricated out

of thin air and words

For sometime I have considered leaving HP.Why? Because I have not only myself but my husband and daughter to consider. I am going to have to give account to God for everything I do- and so will all of you.There has been much foul language on various pieces and graphic descriptions. I'm not saying this is true of everyone but it is common. Our daughter Marian has been posting poems and  Biblical passages but I don't know how much good it does. Jesus warns us not to cast our pearls before swine. There are people on HP who have been writing about cutting thenmselves- lots of them- and there is freedom of speech for them as well as for me. All the debauchery, etc. is having an adverse affect upon her  and I may have to some time soon leave. As aforementioned, this is not about everyone. I am merely addressing the indecent, the profane, etc. Previously when I posted my personal testimony I received a few grateful comments but those who were supposedly depressed and trying to harm themselves never responded... Why?

I put my guts to my glory so that everyone around me has a safety net thrifted into their detailed story

Where does that leave the seamstress at the end of the day, while sewing up tattered *****, wave and watch that memory fade to yesterday

The vice is the voice inside each borrowed choice, the dice thrown down, it's snake eyes now doing all the suffocating in my glass windowed town

I keep stitching up these frays and splits, and each time I know I'm choosing it. Something given to me so it wouldn't be right not to share, but like clockwork I turn and thread that needle with my hair

None of that matters it's neither here nor there. I'm stuck in torpor relishing your dark poison spears. Don't take your cries to the said man of the Sunday hour, the seamstress is here to patch your holes, frays, and splits, and then leave you for the vultures to devour the rest of your ****-

I reassemble,
The wind flows backwards to your hands,
I am returning from whatever version of “beyond” you choose to believe,
Each particle caring a manifest blessing back with it.
Perhaps tears flow up your face, retracing the progression of grief down your cheek.
Or maybe I was an awful at the end and in rewind you whisper “dead is ***** old that god thank.”
But either way that is the past… or the future,
It isn’t prudent to examine such distinctions now
It’s movement not direction that matters.
My form is re-forged by fire,
My bones smoothing in the heat
My flesh hardens from liquid to coalesce around my uncooking muscles,
And still I rewind,
Personality and character drifting through the cobweb wrinkles of my skin,
Till somewhere in the dynamo of my body my heart finally beats its last “*** ba”… and then it’s second to last.
How strange is a life lived backwards?
Would words taste different in my mouth, have new meaning in rewind,
Would I find satanic messages in my everyday phrases or just speak in nonsense, a string of “a-blah-blah” that takes too long to be made sense of.
How different would my actions be?
My hands could peel away bruises,  unbreak eggs, and **** insults out of the air
Yet who would be responsible for these miracles,
Some dreadful foreword version of myself.

I cut my pennies in half to toss them down the wishing well,
It only takes half a wish to get me started.

Sometimes I am a table.
A flat surface on which people pile their extra ****.

Today I came home,
If that word still means anything.

That I could say more
Than everything
By the angle of my expression
Rather than the constructed
Words of a language
Never designed to explain
The intangible.
For how better to articulate
Nonexistence
Than with the untouchable chill
Of a downcast iris against
An arched brow,
Not betraying the
Complexity of human emotion
With the word
"disappointed".